Chapter Two: On-Going Case
Sherlock paced about the room like a caged tiger, his mind racing, longing for a new challenge, yet also entirely focused on his flat mate. Within the next four months, it will have been a year since the first dreams marking John as a keyblade wielder started. Dreams that ultimately led his best friend to a frankly foolish conclusion of embracing the mindless, blind faith of Christianity. Well, maybe not stupid. John and Molly (his girlfriend and also a Christian) were among the smartest and cleverest people he knew, outside himself and Mycroft of course.
The detective had been sure the former soldier would have dropped the act by now. But no, John was as obsessed with this faith as ever. He was still attending church, dating a Christian woman, almost constantly researching one aspect or the other of the Christian faith. And, John had yet to break. Oh, there had been a few close times. Halted swears, arrested violence, strained kindness easing into true compassion towards those who harassed them. There had to be a breaking point. There just had to be a place where the new perfect John ended and the old human John remained.
Not that Sherlock would confess right now, possibly not even some time after his experiments were done, but he could exert some control over his actions even as his brain raced like a thoroughbred. But he had to know what it would take to break John. Something inside him demanded that he find the answer.
"You could go out and train your own power set," John said, looking through the papers for him.
Sherlock scoffed. "Sniffing out the Light and Darkness within a person is dull, cheating," he said, tossing his harpoon from hand to hand. "Unimportant to solving cases."
John released a breath, obviously a technique for calming his temper. "Jim from IT?" he commented. "Killer cabbies?"
Sherlock scowled. "Your point?"
"Being able to sense the murderous or psychopathic Darkness could have been a help in those cases," John said. "Theoretically, less people would have died."
"I still solved the cases," Sherlock said. "Besides, I didn't have that ability before the Heartless Invasion."
John shook his head, his expression clearly stating, "Why do I bother?"
Sherlock went back to pacing for a few minutes, giving John some time to scour the papers some more. When it didn't appear to be anything forthcoming, he asked, "Nothing?"
"Military coup in Uganda," John offered.
Politics. Sherlock hated politics. No good.
John smiled in amusement.
Oh, no. Not—
"Another photo of you in that hat," John said. "I'm sure Molly is very disappointed."
And the teasing. Well, he could allow that. Not to mention, John was right. Molly hated that hat about as much as Sherlock, though both for different reasons. Maybe Sherlock should finally give in and sit through a photo session sometime so that Molly could have a photo of him without the hat.
"Hm," John moved to another paper. "A cabinet reshuffle."
"Nothing of importance," Sherlock growled. He swore as he slammed the harpoon on the floor. True it never garnered a reaction from John before, at least not the reaction he wanted. But at least John reacted a little.
Ah, there it was. The silent sigh and pinching of the nose bridge. So predictable, but also telling. Sherlock had a long way to go before John even started scratching his breaking point.
Well, time to up his game. Again, he could control it, he had been controlling it. But he was feeling just enough of that craving to be convincing. "John, I need some. Get me some," he demanded.
"No," John refused. Point blank. No hesitation.
"Get me some!" Sherlock demanded.
"No, cold turkey. We agreed. No matter what," John said.
Sherlock turned, plotting where to start ripping the place apart as he rammed the harpoon where it wouldn't fall and kill him.
"Anyway," John said, folding up some of the papers, "you've paid off everyone, remember? No one within a two-mile radius will sell you any."
"Stupid idea," Sherlock groused. "Whose idea was that?"
John pointedly cleared his throat.
Oh, right. It had been John hadn't it. Him and Molly. Oh, he wished he could blame this whole business on religion. But he had to consider logically that even without religion, simply based on John's standing as a doctor, this would have happened eventually. Smoke and nicotine being bad for one's health and all that boring drivel. Maybe one day he'd thank them for helping him to finally break the habit. But that wasn't today. Today, he was edging on desperate for a smoke, and he was determined to make John fully aware of that fact. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted.
Sherlock then started tearing through the files and piles of papers on the table and in front of the window. Much to Sherlock's private chagrin, he didn't know where John had hidden his secret supply. He actually wasn't sure how John had found it anyway. But his secret, secret supply should still be safe. He'd go for it if he couldn't find the hiding place of the other.
"Look, Sherlock," John said, calmly, inhumanly calm! "You're doing really well. Don't give up now."
Ah, yes. How long had it been now? A week? Two? Didn't matter. Now his craving was really setting in as he allowed it freedom. "Tell me where they are," he said frantically. "Please. Tell me."
John didn't answer, just continued to fold the papers before settling down to his favored distributor. Not returning to his research, obviously preparing for the need to weather through whatever Sherlock had planned.
Fine. If he was starting to get too obvious, maybe he'll try another tactic. If today's experiment doesn't work. He needed a fix. Now!
He straightened, turning to John, vaguely aware of the papers behind him still sliding. He tried to make his face as sweet as possible. "Please."
John shook his head. "Can't help, sorry," he said. He turned back to his paper. Although more likely he wasn't actually reading but instead pleading for patience.
"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," Sherlock bargained.
John chuckled, chuckled. "I don't do the lottery, Sherlock. Not to mention you'd have to be a mystic of some sort instead of a detective. Those numbers are all random chance."
"Oh, it was worth a try," he muttered. Of course, John was too clever to take that bait. He looked about. He could think of nowhere else. He was going for the supply John shouldn't know about. Sherlock could always hide it again.
He dove for the pile of papers in front of the fireplace, unearthing a Persian slipper, something he'd picked up from a case before meeting John. No! It couldn't be. They were gone. Every single one of them.
"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson called, almost birdlike.
"Secret supply," Sherlock demanded. "What have you done with my secret supply?"
"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?" Sherlock demanded.
"You know you never let me touch your things," Mrs. Hudson said. "Oh, chance would be a fine thing." Obviously she had noticed the mess of papers.
Sherlock shot up and turned to her. "I thought you weren't my housekeeper."
"I'm not," she assured. She said that but more likely than not if John didn't pick it up before lunch, she would be back up here to straighten it up and dust.
Sherlock growled in frustration, storming back toward the window and his harpoon. John was as placid as ever. Mrs. Hudson was doing her typical mothering. And he still couldn't get the satisfaction of a challenging case, nor the desired reaction from the irritatingly calm John Watson! Where was his doctor that had bad days? Where was the man who got angry and frustrated at Donovan and Anderson alongside him? Nothing was the way it should be!
"How about a nice cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "And perhaps you could put away your harpoon."
"I need something stronger than tea," Sherlock countered. "Seven percent stronger." Yes, something, anything to dull his racing senses and make sense of this madness. Wait. He whirled back, pointing the harpoon at Mrs. Hudson. He barely noticed her flinch as a hundred other details dashed into his mind, demanding to be deduced. "You've been to see Mr. Chatterjee again."
"Pardon?" she asked, shocked.
"Sandwich shop," he answered, rattling off his findings. "That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."
"Sherlock," John cautioned. His paper given up by this point, ready to jump to defense or act peacemaker.
But Sherlock wasn't finished. No. He'd just started and he needed this outlet. "Thumbnail: tiny traces of foil," he continued. "Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?" One of Mrs. Hudson's own vices. He took a deep sniff through the nose, just to be sure of what he was smelling as he lowered the harpoon. "Mmm. 'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree?" he said, walking over to the other window. "I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website. You should look it up."
"Please," Mrs. Hudson said with a slight shake of her head.
"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee," he continued. "He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about."
"Sherlock!" John scolded, half-rising from his chair.
"Well, nobody except me," Sherlock amended.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mrs. Hudson declared, tears in her voice. "I really don't." She raced out of the flat, slamming the door.
Sherlock hopped over the back of his chair, perching on the cushion. New position, new focus. Something had to break through.
John fell back in frustration and chivalrous anger. "Care to explain what that was all about?" he demanded.
Sherlock rocked back and forth, needing to keep moving or else his brain was going to fly into a million pieces. He needed a case. He needed his old John back. "You don't understand," he said.
Then John went into parent-mode. "Go after her and apologize," he ordered.
Sherlock finally met John's eyes. "Apologize?"
John nodded. "Mm-hm."
Why should he apologize for telling Mrs. Hudson the truth and saving her from the womanizer and polygamist who was one Mr. Chatterjee? Oh, of course. John and his uncomplicated mind. "Oh, John, I envy you so much," he said.
John stared at him before finally asking, "You envy me?"
"Your mind," Sherlock explained, fighting to keep from exploding. "It's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on a launch pad." He exploded. "I need a case!"
"You just solved one!" John shot back just as loudly. "By harpooning a dead pig!"
Sherlock exploded in movement, no longer able to keep still, sitting "properly" in the chair. "That was this morning!" His fingers fidgeted, his feet popped up and down. "When's the next one?"
John sighed, momentarily pressing the inner corners of his eyes with one hand. Ah, so the pressure was building. Slowly making progress. A bare murmur of "God, give me strength." A deep breath and then outwardly calmer, he asked, "Nothing on the website?" Of course, it would take more than just that. But getting closer.
Sherlock shot up, getting his open laptop from the table and giving it to John, showing him the latest missive Sherlock had received. "'Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,'" he recited. "'I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please, can you help?'"
"Bluebell?" John asked for clarification.
"A rabbit, John!" Sherlock snapped. "Ah, but there's more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous, 'like a fairy,'" he quoted in a girl's high voice, "according to little Kirsty. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry . . ." A brilliant thought came to mind.
"Ah! What am I saying?" Sherlock cried. "This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade," he told John. "Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."
John stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "Are you serious?"
"It's this," Sherlock said, "or Cluedo." Now Cluedo, he truly believed he'd nearly gotten John back, but then John had run away into the cold night for at least an hour.
"Ah, no!" John said, quickly closing the laptop and returning it to the table. "We are never playing that again!"
"Why not?" Sherlock demanded.
"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why," John shot back before returning to his chair.
"It was the only possible solution," Sherlock said. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. It had to have been a suicide. That was the only way the game made sense.
"It's not in the rules," John countered, reaching for his books as he sat down. Clearly, he hoped to escape into his research.
"Then the rules are wrong!" Sherlock shouted.
Just then, cutting through the growing tension, the sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell.
John held up a finger. "Single ring," he said.
"Maximum pressure just under the half second," Sherlock said, hope building.
"Client," they said together.
Sherlock was only passingly aware of John's seeming relief as he went to exchange his dressing gown for a suitcoat. A client had arrived. Hopefully it would be worth their while.
Author's Note: And we are officially in the midst of the episode. I'll admit that even when I initially watched this episode, I felt that Sherlock was acting especially hyperactive and maybe even a touched crazed as compared to normal. Now a more veteran fan can correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this is the only time we ever see Sherlock act this badly between cases. Yes, he's been "BORED!" but this is the only time it causes him to act like a child on caffeine/sugar rush. So, quite frankly, it translated beautifully into: Sherlock needs to find John's breaking point, he needs his old John back.
The reference to Molly's distaste for the hat is inspired by GoodShipSherlollipop's vision of Molly, and John's referenced girlfriend is her original character that she is so kindly giving me permission to borrow. :-)
And again, all dialogue from the show was provided by Ariane Devere's transcripts.
So, anyone know who's at the door? Would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. It was definitely interesting trying to dive into Sherlock's mind in this chapter and in following chapters. Now, any theories yet about what will happen? Or just along for the ride? :-)